THE DANCE OF DEATH, &c. as ll THE SOLDIER'S ADIEU. A WINTER SONG.
Lixe the stars to the night, How the winter whirlwind roars,
Or the breeze to the sea, With the snow-storm in its train! My fair one—my fond one, Faat the fleecy deluge poure—
I'll be unto thee. When will summer come again t Though ocean divides us, When will summer's golden bow
Where’er I may roam. Pre O’er the valley, and the plain, My heart shall be with thea». All its glorious lastre throw—:
And thy cottage home, -" =~ “ When will summer come again
Where we twined the young jasmine,
Which still fondly wreathes;
Where we planted the rose-tree, That still sweetly breathes;
Where we've oft roam'd together, And plighted our truth;
In our first days of rapture, The brightest of youth.
Oh, there is a spell
That still dwells with the heart, And in moments of sorrow
Sweet peace will impart; When away from the home,
And the lov’d ones we prize, Those bright fairy forms “Tn memory rise.
And though I be far
On the billowy sea,
My heart, dearest Julia, My heart is with thee:
I but go o’er the wave, Brighter laurels to earn;
Soon enwreath’d with more glory, In joy to return.
v;
Frost hath seized the rapid rili, Glittering like a silver vein; Sates Fixed it lies, its song is stilli— s When wil! summer come again 1 When will balmier winds be ours, Bees and birds resume their strain; Branches burst, and grass, and flowers, -: When will summer come again?
Earth is as ancient man: ’
White her locks with winter's stain,
And her lips are sad and wan— 4
When will sufhmer come again
Oh! for lovely glade and bower!
Oh! for pleasure’s smibing train;
Bud and blossom, fruit and flower—
When will summer come again?
Now the woods are stripped and bare,
Bare the valley and the plain;
Bleached the hills that were so feir—
When will summer come again?
Oh! for wand’rings in the woods,
Oh! for sunshine on the main!
Limpid billows—sparkling floods,
When will summer come agair t
THE DANCE OF DEATH.
A CHEERFUL evening party were assembled,
some years ago, in Copenhagan, to celebrate
the birth-day of a common friend. They were
youhg y, but their mirth, which otherwise
might etx past the bounds of moderation,
was ch: and restrained by the accidental
presence of a guest, whose passive rather than
active participation.in the scene, whose silent
and grave deportment, and whose sparing, and
almost whispered replies, when addressed, formed
a strange contrast with the festivity and liveli-
ness of the rest of the company.
Those who were acquainted with him, nevertheless, maintained, that among his intimate
friends, the strapger was an interesting compa-
nion, possessed of a great fund of amecdote and
observation, anf a power of in hen he
chose, with an air of origi “, the
every-day occurrences’ and ences of life.
This vein, however, he rarely indulged, and, ip
mixed society, could with difficulty be prevailed
on to open his lips. When he did, however, he
was listened to with attention and reverence;
and often the noisy mirth of the party became
gradually hushed as he poured out, in his calm
solemn tone, his rich stores of anecdote and
- narrative.
It seemed as if, on this occasion, the presence
of some friends whom he had not seen for some
time past, had gradually disposed him to be more
communicative as the evening advanced,“and
dissipated that reserve which the loud gaiety of
the party about him had at first inspired. The
sparkling glass had circulated freely and fre-
quently; song after song had, to the
custom of the country, enlivened the night, when
some young wight, probably over head and ears
in love, and anxious to let the world know it,
commenced an air of Baggesen’s, in which each
guest, in his turn, sings a stanza, and dripks to
the health of his mistress by her baptismal name,
the company,repeating the pledge in chorus.
Ere the silent guest was aware, his turn had come. The host was filling his empty glass, and pressing him to begin. He roused himself, as if waking from a dream, and turning suddenly round, said gravely, “Let the dead rest in peace.” —“By all means,” said the host, “Sit iis levis terra. And so we'll drink to their memory; but come—you know the custom—a name wg.) must have.”
“Well, then,” said the stranger. quickly, “F Will give you one that will find an echo in every breast—Amanva.”—“Amanda!” repeated the party, as they emptied their glasses. “Amanda!” said the younger brother of thé landlord, who,
